Quotes About Nostalgia

The Young Tradition (1966) and its successor, So Cheerfully Round (1967), both released on Transatlantic, are rustic tapestries of ballads, carols and street cries from the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries; a parade of serving-maids, poachers, fishermen, cunning foxes, bold dragoons, pretty ploughboys and hungry children.

Until the end of their lives, these men and women would tell stories about the summer they followed Lyndon Johnson and his Flying Windmill around Texas; as Oliver Knight of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram would write about one trip, "That mad dash from Navasota to Conroe in which I dodged stumps at 70 MPH just to keep up with that contraption will ever be green in my memory.") At the landing site, there would be the brief respite

he thought, "My own R. B. Russell, Jr.—I was crazy with happiness." He said then what he was to repeat many times: "That is me living all over again.

though weather is important while it happens it seems to me to be pretty dull to look back on. You can take descriptions of most any sort of weather out of an almanac and stick them in just anywhere; they'll probably fit.

Oremos por un último aterrizaje sobre el globo que nos vio nacer. Fijemos nuestros ojos en el cielo aborregado y las frescas, verdes colinas de la Tierra.

I wished that I were back on the Hunters' farm, bathed in the warm protectiveness of Mrs. Hunter. I wished that I were in Vicksburg, sharing mutual loneliness with Georges.

Baggage included a tossed salad of books as well as hundreds of the more usual film spools. The entire family, save the twins, tended to be old-fashioned about books; they liked books with covers, volumes one could hold in the lap. Film spools were not quite the same.

Many people use the energy of their nostalgia for paradise trying to get back to a previous state of grace, back to childhood. This is not possible, and people are wiser to use their energy to progress to the Heavenly Jerusalem. Regression is deadly; progression wins one's soul.

She walked a ways down the concourse, and looked back and waved and then turned a corner and was out of sight. I still stood for a moment, looking at the last place I had seen her, being careful not to be routine, while I became the other guy again, the one I was without her.

Did William Powell take Myrna Loy to a Dunkin' Donut shop?" "He didn't know enough," I said. I raised my coffee cup toward her.

I sat and looked up at the blue sky and across at the blank windows for a long time. A woman I'd once cared about had worked in anadvertising agency over there. Sometimes, when the sun came at them from a different angle, I could see through the windows across the street and watch her moving about her office. Agency was gone now. Maybe the whole building was gone, replaced by a new one. It was hard to remember.

It was that juxtaposition of how it used to be with how it had turned out that made L.A. so interesting and so sad a place, I thought.

Tengo el corazón de un niño. Lo guardo en un jarro sobre mi estante

I have the heart of a small boy. I keep it in a jar on my desk.

One taste of the old time sets all to rights.

Let me weep My youth and its brave hopes, all dead and gone, In tears which burn.

We two have paddled in the stream, from morning sun till dine; But seas between us broad have roared since days of long ago.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot and days of auld lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we'll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne.

Punk nostalgia, on the other hand, is a grotesque oxymoron. What can it mean to pine for a time when you were young and nihilistic? To look back twenty years to when you believed there was no future?

Here is America Now: smoke, greasy fumes, the friction of tire rubber, the memory of terrifying refineries with their rubbery rotten-egg smells.

There comes a day in every man's life when he stops looking forward and starts looking back.

So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be.

I dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart